


A Death in the Family

by MaskoftheRay



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Bruce Needs a Hug, Bruce Wayne is sad, Bruce and Clark are best friends, Friendship, Gen, Grief, I'm sorry everyone!!! It's sad, Mourning, Sadness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-17
Updated: 2018-09-17
Packaged: 2019-07-13 08:10:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16013849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaskoftheRay/pseuds/MaskoftheRay
Summary: Alfred dies on a cold winter's day. This is the aftermath.





	A Death in the Family

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own any of these characters, DC Comics does. I use a quote from T.S. Eliot's _The Wasteland_ and quote all of Lord Tennyson's poem, _Break, Break, Break_ in this piece.

From “The Wasteland” by T.S. Eliot: 

"... What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow 

Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man, 

You cannot say, or guess, for you know only 

A heap of broken images, where the sun beats, 

And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief, 

And the dry stone no sound of water. Only 

There is shadow under this red rock, 

(Come in under the shadow of this red rock), 

And I will show you something different from either 

Your shadow at morning striding behind you 

Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you; 

I will show you fear in a handful of dust..." 

It was the middle of winter, the wind was whip-fast, white with snowflakes, and sharp. It cut at people’s eyes like the Joker’s favorite switchblade. Everyone on the streets bent forward, like marionette dolls whose strings had been severed. The ground in Gotham was frozen, and cars left glittering trails of exhaust at the turn of a streetlight. The big trees outside the manor were bare and clawing, like cracks against the sky. Earlier that week, Dick had taken Damian and Tim out to build snowmen. Even Bruce did not feel like going outside more than he had to; including as Batman. Last night, he’d broken out the special suit that he’d used on several occasions to fight Mr. Freeze but even then, he’d called it a night earlier than usual. It had been dead silent outside after about eleven. 

It was the middle of winter, and the horrendous weather was suitable for death— not like when it was perversely sunny at a funeral. Nothing felt more wrong than a blue sky at a funeral (it had been that way for Jason, and Bruce had wanted to scream at the sky). Alfred Thaddeus Crane Pennyworth lived to be 87. He died on a cold winter’s day. 

The world felt as if it should have stopped; snowflakes should have frozen in their descent from the sky, birds hesitated in mid-flight, cellular division aborted in all bodies. The tea kettle should not have been able to boil. But the world at large moves on, even if one’s personal world has crumbled, is crumbling, slowly. Bruce knew this. But still, he had to relearn it. It had been a long time since his heart had been torn so viscerally from its resting place. The world didn’t stop, so Bruce couldn’t stop. He went to Wayne Enterprises, although he did not have to play at not working, when he was there. The world finally crashed to a halt at Alfred’s funeral. 

It was a small gathering. Just those who had known Alfred best: the boys, all of them, even Jason (who’d come back to the manor to borrow a proper suit), some of his remaining friends, a few of whom Bruce knew, some he hadn’t, a niece, Bruce, Barbara, Cassandra, Stephanie, Selina, Jim, and Clark. There had been fierce debate amongst the founders when they had heard the news. Should they _all_ come, in show of support? Should _none_ of them come, out of respect for Bruce’s privacy? Should a select few go? If so, who? All had known Alfred, maybe not well, but they knew of him, knew of his kindness, patience, delicious cooking, and ability to whip Batman into shape. It was decided that Clark would go, as he knew Bruce best. Clark would go because he out of all of them had the most public history with Bruce. It would be a stretch, but not completely unreasonable for him to show up. So he was there, quietly standing in the back, a gap between him and the rest of the mourners. 

It was cold in the graveyard, everyone’s breath spiraling from their lips, feet slowly numbing in the snow, bodies shivering under too-thin jackets. Bruce, most of all, looked frozen. He had just a thin, black overcoat, dress shoes, and a suit of the darkest black Clark had ever seen. His hair was slicked back and his tie was dark gray. But rather than looking regal, he looked like a doll, and it had something to do with his demeanor. He was not hunched forward, as some of the others were. He still retained his good posture, but there was something in how he held himself as he walked forward that read: hunched inwards. It was in his eyes too, the scrunched-up look of an ocean of pain being barely suppressed. Clark wanted nothing more than to warm his friend, but he couldn’t. Bruce came forward and heads turned, murmured speech hushed, sniffles subsided. The wind echoed in the silence. Clark heard his friend swallow, heard the constriction of his throat, the slight uptick in his heartbeat. But he spoke with barely a tremble. Clark’s heart was breaking. 

“Thank you all for being here today. I’m sure it would have meant a lot to Alfred. As I’m sure most of you know, I am Bruce Wayne. Maybe you didn’t know that I was close to Alfred, but I was. After my parents died, he stayed by my side. He stayed, and never left. And for that, I’m grateful. He stayed, with the orphaned boy who by no means should have had to be his responsibility. He stayed and became part of my family; he was, in all but name, a grandfather to my children. For that, I’m grateful. Alfred was a man of many talents: butler, father figure, grandfather, friend. I may not be very good with words, but thankfully, others are. I think the words of Lord Tennyson in his poem, “Break, Break, Break” will ring true for most of us today: 

'Break, break, break, 

On thy cold gray stones, O Sea! 

And I would that my tongue could utter 

The thoughts that arise in me. 

O, well for the fisherman's boy, 

That he shouts with his sister at play! 

O, well for the sailor lad, 

That he sings in his boat on the bay! 

And the stately ships go on 

To their haven under the hill; 

But O for the touch of a vanish'd hand, 

And the sound of a voice that is still! 

Break, break, break 

At the foot of thy crags, O Sea! 

But the tender grace of a day that is dead 

Will never come back to me.' 

I have nothing else to say. We have all lost a good friend, a good man today,” Bruce concluded, walking away from the podium. There was not a dry eye in sight. Dick’s tears were silently streaming down his face, Tim’s eyes were reddened, and even Damian’s lips trembled as Dick handed him a tissue to wipe his nose with. Bruce returned to his brood and Dick pressed close to his side. 

After that, some of Alfred’s friends from his army days spoke. They recounted past brave deeds, laughs had, and tales told. Then Bruce took a handful of icy dirt, paying no attention to how it stung his hands, and tossed it in. Clark heard more convulsive swallowing, rapid blinking. But still, Bruce did not cry. The rest of the procession followed suit, then like clockwork dolls, retreated down the path, to black cars, and followed Bruce, who drove a black Mercedes, to the manor to warm up. 

In the manor, there was hot coffee, apple cider, tea, and finger sandwiches, perfectly prepared, as if Alfred had done it himself. “Bruce made everything,” Dick said, coming up behind him. Clark startled, barely catching his cider. He spun to face Dick, whose eyes were still glistening, but his face had regained some of its color since coming inside. Clark swallowed a sip of cider. “I’m glad you came. It means a lot. To him. To us. Thank you,” Dick continued. 

“Of course I came. We didn’t know what to do, after we heard… but everyone thought we should do _something_ , so I came. And it wasn’t just for Bruce, I knew Alfred too— and of course, I’m here for you, and the rest, if you ever want to talk,” Clark said. Dick squeezed his shoulder and gave him a watered-down smile. 

“Thanks, Clark,” he said before moving along. 

Clark circled the room, inadvertently following Bruce’s path through the room. He talked to new people, ones he already knew, some he’d heard about. He made sure to pull aside each of the boys, and Cass and Barbra, and Stephanie. Finally, there was nowhere else to spiral. Bruce turned to him, his hands clenched around a paper cup of coffee, knuckles white to match the paper. “Hello,” he said, voice scratchy. 

Clark offered a small, understanding smile. Bruce did not return it. Clark suddenly felt strongly that Bruce was trying his best to not fall apart— it was nothing he _sensed_ , it was just an impression; the concrete of Bruce’s will keeping the meat of his emotions from slipping out. It was the tension in his hands, the stiffness in his shoulders. “I’m sorry,” he blurted, but paused. _Sorry for what_ , he asked himself. True, he was sorry for Bruce’s loss, sorry it hurt so much. But, truly, that had not been what he was talking about. Bruce nodded. 

“Thank you for coming. It means… a lot,” he said, turning away. Clark nodded, understanding. He slowly retreated, and after a respectful amount of time spent meandering through the room, departed. 

After everyone had left, including some of his children (Jason, Tim) and everything had been cleaned, the silence crashed down upon Bruce. He abruptly felt like he was drowning, like something was crushing his heart. _This is grief_ , he thought, familiar with the beast that had followed him most of his life. But it hadn’t attacked him quite like this for a long, long time. Bruce calmly dried his hands and swiftly walked to the master bedroom. He locked the door and cried and cried and cried. 

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 

Two days later, nobody in the manor had seen Bruce. Oh, Batman was still around, but none of his children had seen him even in costume, except for perhaps a wave of his cape or in a glance of him grappling away. Gotham, perversely, almost seemed to be respecting the mourning process of its vigilantes because there was nothing happening on the streets. Time, finally, was frozen. In the manor, nobody saw Bruce. Nobody was even sure if he had eaten, except dishes were washed and food missing from the fridge. But still, nobody saw Bruce. 

A week after the funeral, there was a founder’s meeting. No one explicitly told Batman about it, concerned that he’d show up. Nobody wanted to disturb him right now. Yet, he was there, startling Diana when she flicked on the lights in the meeting room. He was there when Flash walked in, and froze in the middle of a joke he was telling Green Lantern. He was there when Clark floated into the room and froze. “Spooky,” Hal said, almost softly, “you don’t have to be here.” 

Bruce sat up, visibly bristling. “Why not? I’m part of the league, it’s my job,” he said. Nobody replied, but the answer was there, floating in the room like air. But after everyone had sat down, Bruce said, stiffly, “Flash, I have something for you, after the meeting.” Flash nodded, eyes wide. 

The meeting progressed, although no one was paying as much attention as they should, even Batman. Diana felt _cold_ sitting next to him, as if the black of his costume had somehow become a sentient broadcaster for its owner’s grief. Bruce, Diana could tell, was not okay. After the meeting, everyone stayed, curious about Bruce’s behavior. More than a few of them stayed to make sure the if Batman were to suddenly burst into tears, he wouldn’t be alone. 

Bruce withdrew a duffle bag, Flash standing anxiously a few feet away. He felt Bruce’s aura too. The item turned out to be pages of typed recipes, with Alfred’s spidery scrawl annotating different things in the margins. “Your favorites,” Bruce said, holding a firm hand out to Flash, with the recipes in it, “he would have wanted you to have it.” Flash, bless him, only went silent for a beat, before smiling hesitantly. 

“Oh. Thank you… I’ll make sure to keep these handy. Maybe I can make something for the next meeting,” he said. Bruce nodded, standing. 

“Good,” he said, rapidly heading for the door. The sadness followed him like a dog. 

“Jesus,” Flash whispered, not remembering that there were others with super-hearing in the room. Clark echoed his sentiment. 

Bruce had originally planned to leave after the meeting. He did not want to be here, did not truly care enough to be there. But he needed to be there. It would be unprofessional to not be there. So he went, and on a whim, brought the pile of Alfred’s recipes— that he had intended to give to Flash, at some point— with him. He thought he would be able to do that. Do such a small, simple thing, without becoming a living disaster. He had become better after the two days of no outside contact, or so he’d told himself. He knew it was not healthy, this suppression of grief, of feeling, but he’d also allowed himself to actually _grieve_ this time. Alfred would have wanted it. And, no, he knew that two days was not enough, but he only allowed himself that because he knew that, secretly, he would continue grieving. It was just, he had not allowed himself to publicly grieve before, so that was what he had done. But that was over, he’d done his duty, and now he would, he _could_ , do this, privately. Or so he’d told himself. 

But he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t. Not so soon. Seeing Alfred’s handwriting, knowing he was the one who had put the thought, the care, into these pages… it was too much. Some lever in Bruce snapped again, and suddenly, as he was giving Flash the papers, he felt the pressure behind his eyes, in his throat, the clamp tightening around his heart. And suddenly, Bruce was a walking disaster again. 

He had planned to leave the Watchtower directly after the meeting. But he couldn’t. Not like this. Not with tears slowly collecting behind the mask. Not a mess like this. He wouldn’t do that to his children. Not when they had enough to handle, with their own grief. They didn’t need to be concerned about _him_ at a time like this. So, instead, Bruce hurried through the halls of the Watchtower. He made it to his room before he started crying fully. 

The beast was hungry after so many years of gnawing on the flesh of Bruce’s grief; it had devoured the meat, then the blood, and had had nothing but bones and marrow for many years since. This new death fed it and it feasted. The light stayed off, the suit stayed on, except for the cowl; Bruce did not want to ruin it with saltwater. He stopped himself from flopping onto the bed, barely. He stared at the ceiling. The sooner this was out of his system, the sooner he could go home and _work_. Work would always be there, had always been there. Bruce had become Batman through sweat, blood, and _work_. Work was dependable, a life vest in the ocean of grief. He had buried himself in work before and had emerged, scabbed over, bandaged from grief. He could do it again. After all, there was so much to do, since Alfred’s departure; he had to go _grocery shopping_ now. But staring at the white, sterile ceiling did not offer proper distraction, in fact, only led him to a contemplative mood, which did no good to quell the beast. 

Bruce brought a gloved hand to his face, pinched the bridge of his nose, took a raspy breath. He had thought he could do this. He should have known, should have known that nothing was ever this simple, had his education in grief taught him nothing? He should have known better. And now he was here. He was spinning— literally and figuratively— in space. One spall speck among the stars and he felt hollower than dark matter. He hurt; hurt more freshly than he had in a long, long time. It hurt more, having experience with the process, knowing what was coming next. Bruce blinked open his eyes and stared at the ceiling, feeling scraped raw. But he stopped spiraling. He may have even been able to hold himself together enough to get home to lock himself away before his children saw this. But somebody knocked. 

Clark was polite enough to wait until the worst of it subsided. He knocked, even. “Come in,” croaked Bruce, knowing that his friend would have come in anyway. Clark came in, carrying a hot cup of peppermint tea. He found Bruce lying on his bed, cape on but mask off, as if he’d been staring at the ceiling, or at nothing. His hands were still gloved, and were clasped tightly together, as if they could hold the bits of Bruce that were hurting together. Clark shut the door. Bruce's eyes were puffy and he sniffed once. 

The peppermint tea set him off again, as Alfred had always made him peppermint tea. And, god, was it embarrassing to be crying—not even _crying_ , as really only a few tears leaked out— over tea. But it was a small gesture that showed care, and Bruce knew that he did not do things like it enough, so to have it done for him was… appreciated. Alfred had known that. “Sorry,” he said gruffly, after tears had stopped leaking from his eyes. He sat up, tossed the gloves onto the ground, and took a sip of tea. He took one, shaky breath. 

Clark was looking at him, still standing a ways away from the bed; Bruce tried not to feel like a specimen under a microscope, but it didn’t help that he already felt picked apart, nor did the fact that his best friend literally had _x-ray vision_. Half the mug of tea had been drunk before Bruce sighed, shakily, and set the mug down. It clinked against his bedside table. 

Clark seemed to acknowledge his cue, as he looked up briefly when he heard the sound of Bruce’s mug being set down. The silence continued, as if Clark was waiting for him to talk first. Bruce bristled, feeling the unpleasant combination of throbbing, scratchy eyes, prickling unease, a constricted throat, and squeezed heart. He was also quite tired, as was common among people who were grieving. He also thought, _Clark should know better_. He was not one to willingly share feelings. Had never been. Would never be. It was a stretch for Clark to even be here now; Bruce had let him because he would have come anyway, and really, he didn’t want to be going around with the knowledge that Clark was _worried_ about him in the back of his head. It wouldn’t do. He was… wasn’t _fine_ but he was functional. Barely. He felt as if he might fling apart at any moment, but. That wasn’t completely un-normal, was it? Things had always been better left unsaid, in Bruce’s opinion. 

Clark hadn’t said anything, still. He hadn’t said anything and Bruce was struggling against the tide. He could hold it together, he _did_ hold it together but it was hard. It was hard to fight against the gravity of the blackhole, against the gravity of the sinking feeling he had most days, knowing Alfred was not there, would never be there again. He would do it, he had already done it, with his parents, but god, he’d forgotten the _time_ and _lies told to oneself_ it took, to be _okay_. Jesus, it took so much energy to be okay. Bruce swallowed convulsively, picking up his mug of tea again. If he was drinking something, maybe his body would be distracted and his throat wouldn’t form a lump and his heart would keep beating steadily and his mouth wouldn’t clench and his eyes wouldn’t be teary. Bruce grabbed the handle of the mug of tea tightly and didn’t realize he’d finished it all until he went to take another sip and realized there was nothing left. Absently, he set it down again. 

Clark sighed, drifting over. Bruce turned, delicately; he was a tightrope walker, he was an eggshell, he was a shattered mirror. He closed in on himself; a Russian nesting doll. His hands came together, again, in a show of nonchalance; that didn’t hide the tension in the muscles from Clark. He couldn’t hide from Clark. But at least his heartbeat had calmed and he wasn’t choking on air. “Bruce,” Clark said, in acknowledgement. 

Bristling was something Bruce did well; it was what the beast wanted him to do. Living with a beast rubbed off; Bruce bristled, jaw clenching, eyes fiery, back stiff. Clark frowned a second, but sighed again. He sat, suddenly. Bruce fought the striking tension, forced his jaw to relax. _Clark was trying to be a friend_ , he reminded himself. “What,” he said somewhat less stiffly than he could have. 

Clark sighed again, looking at him, reflecting on his pain and Bruce— Batman— wanted to snarl, ‘don’t.’ “You can’t keep doing this, Bruce. Please… just take some time. We all would understand,” Clark said. Bruce stood, sharply, feeling the beast surge forward— ah, here was something else it could eat alive. 

“Don’t. You don’t— I—,” Bruce spat. He swallowed and tried again. He spun to face Clark again, cape swirling behind him. “I am not ‘taking time,’ Clark, so you can just tell Diana, and the others that I’m _fine_ —” 

Clark’s brows had shot up and he let out one bark of sardonic laughter. Bruce hissed, eyes molten, “ _Shut up_. I wasn’t finished. I _am_ fine _because_ I know what I need. And what I need to do is to work so I don’t tear myself apart. I need to work so I have _time_ to get better without falling apart, so I can _actually be fine_ later. I can’t do this to my children, Clark! I won't make them hold me together through this, it's not fair for them to have _that_ burden. So don't tell me what to do.” And suddenly he ran out of steam. He was so tired. Bruce frowned, and rubbed his eyes. He sighed shakily, and his shoulders dropped from their hunched position. Clark watched his friend run out of steam. Bruce abruptly _stopped_ talking. He looked tired. His mouth was pursed, brow furrowed, shoulders hanging. He couldn’t stand it anymore. 

He was so tired. His eyes hurt. His head hurt. Objectively, Bruce knew that he was probably dehydrated too. Distantly, he felt a gnawing emptiness in his stomach that was more than emotional. He hadn’t _eaten_ for too long before coming here. There was simultaneously too much to do and nothing at all. If he could stand here with his eyes closed forever, he would. Abruptly, there was a pair of strong, warm, invulnerable arms around him. Bruce felt his temper spike, but he held it at bay; a show of force against the beast and its wiles; he _had_ played this game before. It was nice, to just _be_. Bruce’s heart relaxed a little. He let his friend hold him together and the weight and tension in his shoulders released and he no longer felt like his world was crumbling so much. Bruce Wayne let himself be, just for a moment. 

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 

Clark thought Bruce had fallen asleep, the way his friend gradually relaxed, just allowing Clark to hold him. He took a moment to study Bruce’s face and it hurt; like looking at the sun. Bruce was raw; it radiated from his puffy, red eyes, from his paleness, from the stubble, from the too-fast heartbeat. It made Clark’s heart hurt. But he was here. He could do this. If this was what Bruce needed, he’d do it. And he felt warm, a little part of him, knowing that he was trusted like this. But it ended too soon. Bruce suddenly, just as suddenly as he’d given in, tensed, and seemed to shake himself. Clark loosened his hold and Bruce stepped out of it, like a cat walking aloofly away from being pet. “I need to get home,” Bruce said, a little roughly. But there was something… calmer in his voice when he said that. Before Clark could say anything, Bruce shoved his cowl, and the gloves, back on before striding from the room. Clark blinked, still processing what had happened. Then he took a breath, took the empty mug of tea, and locked the door after him. 

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A month after, Diana visited. Clark had told her everything, one afternoon, over coffee. He had sat down the founders and told a bit of what had happened— essentially, what Batman wants, what would be best for Bruce, is to work— and that was that. Bruce was still raw, it was clear for everyone to see, but he no longer seemed in danger of snapping. Clark thought that maybe, he might even be holding up just as well in private. But he didn’t pry enough to be sure; hell, if he’d wanted to, he'd have had to ask Bruce’s children to check up on him, and Bruce was right, Clark did not want to do that. But he did come by a few times, after the incident on the Watchtower. He talked to Dick. To Damian, surprisingly. Hugged Stephanie and waved at Cass as she passed him on the stairs down to the cave. The world moved again. So, a month passed this way. 

Diana visited one afternoon. She brought dishes of food, good food, with her. She came late in the afternoon after she knew Bruce had been to visit the graveyard. He was holed up in the cave, in sweats and a t-shirt. The silence echoed around the room, crashing into her. She felt a sharp ache of absence. Alfred would have known how to fill the silence, would have asked how she was doing. 

“Hello, Bruce,” she said. He sat up, unhunching, and turned. 

“Diana,” he said evenly. 

“I brought food. It is in your refrigerator, and labeled,” she said. Some of the tension went out of his frame and a brief sign of relief flashed in his eyes. 

“Thank you,” he said prosaically. Diana hesitated. Bruce spun around in his chair, began typing something. The silence walloped Diana again. 

“Bruce…” she said. He stopped. But didn’t turn. “How are you?” she asked. 

“Fine,” he said. 

The lasso burned against her side. She frowned. Diana came forward and placed a hand on Bruce’s shoulder. He tensed under her touch, so she backed off a little. He spun around to face her. He looked tired still, but not as raw as before. Still, the lasso buzzed. They were silent again. “Bruce, you know you can talk to me,” Diana said. He nodded, eyes downcast. 

“Are you alright?” Diana asked again. Bruce sighed, rubbed his eyes with his hands. 

“I keep waiting for something to happen. Gotham’s been— relatively— quiet. We’ve been able to hold the pieces together. Barely. We’ve been eating. Sleeping. But… I. I can’t do this alone forever. Dick tries to come back and help, but I can’t expect that of him. It’s unfair. He has his own city, his own life. So I’m waiting. And… I miss him— I miss Al-Alfred. And I just, I don’t know. I thought I would be better at this. This time,” Bruce blurted. Diana was silent. Slightly puzzled. _‘This time,’_ she puzzled. But then. _Oh. He meant with his parents._ And her eyes glistened. Bruce was looking at her, slightly wide-eyed. Exhausted. Overwhelmed. 

“Come here,” Diana said firmly. Bruce stood uncertainly. Diana practically crushed him in a hug. He let her. “It will get better. We are all here, Bruce. We are right here with you,” she said. Diana felt him swallow, felt the slight, repressed, controlled tremor run through him. Bruce was not okay, but maybe he would be. With time. With help. 

“I... I know, Diana. And th-thank you,” he said roughly, and stepped away. Diana smiled and let him go.


End file.
